


Disconnect

by Ernmark (M_Moonshade)



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, coping mechanisms gone very very wrong, hardcore disassociation, lots of blood and gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 20:58:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9625106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/Ernmark
Summary: After witnessing what he thinks is Juno's death, Peterhas a mental breakdownis perfectly fine.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Blame Biomechatronic for this one: "You said more prompts so, unsurprisingly, here I am. This is different from my usual fare, but a friend and I were talking about it a while back-- what happens if Juno thinks Peter is dead? Or vice versa?"

On one side of the door, Juno sinks to the floor, Miasma’s dying scream still echoing in his ears. He isn’t dead. He isn’t dead. He should be, but he isn’t dead.

Nureyev  is still on the other side, pounding his fists into the door.

“Juno! Juno, you impossible idiot, answer me! Answer me, please!” 

And then he catches himself– what if Juno is alive– what if he’s hurt– what if he’s trying to say something but he can’t make himself heard over all the noise?

So he goes still, his ear pressed to the door, not even breathing. Silently, he prays to any god who still remembers his name to please please please, let him live.

Juno, and all the other gods under the heavens, are silent.

“Juno!” he cries, pounding on the door until his fists leave red smears on the airlock. “Juno, no, no, no…” 

Juno can feel every impact against his back, vibrating through several inches of steel. He can feel it when the pounding stops and Nureyev slumps against the wall, sliding slowly to the floor. 

He should say something. He should open the door and let Nureyev see he’s alive. He should.

He doesn’t.

Because that was it, wasn’t it? A soulful confession, a heroic sacrifice, that was his blaze of glory. There’s no living up to that. There’s no way forward from this point. No matter how he proceeds, Juno will end up fucking it up so badly that Nureyev will wish he really had died right here.

So maybe it’s better to let him think he did. 

* * *

Life after ~~Juno~~ is surprisingly easy, so long as ~~Nureyev~~ doesn’t think about him. 

~~Just don’t think about him. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him.~~

He throws himself into his work. Steals whatever might pose a challenge. Creates new personas with backstories so elaborate that he can’t afford to spend time introspecting.

He does not return to Mars. He does not do work directly with metal when he can help it (copper and silver and gold and platinum are fine, but he still flinches at the mention of ~~steel~~ ).

He laughs often. Smiles always. 

~~If you can convince them you’re fine then you can convince yourself.~~

There’s no need to think of it. His grief and devastation are neatly packed into a little box inside his head. That dark little corner was crowded enough just with memories of ~~Mag~~. 

~~You killed him you killed him you killed him he was your father he loved you and you murdered him~~

In fact, he almost manages to avoid thinking of him entirely for… how long has it been since ~~Juno died~~? How do you mark time without acknowledging your start?

No matter. He’s fine, except for moments like this one, cornered between a thirty-four story drop and a rival thief with a fully-charged laser.

He could die here, right now. ~~And see Juno again. See Mag again.~~

~~But Juno died to save him died to save him died died ḑ̢̫̥̩̜̰͆̓̄͌͘͝ḭ̶͍͍̳͐̈́͑̐̀́̑̄͐͢͜͝ě̷͎͔̞̹̗̙̯̃͗͌̈̂̓̕ḍ̷̲͇̥̗͕͕̬̐̃͌̽͡ͅ d̵̡̛̙̙͖̹̞͔̺͎̎͐̾̉̋̑͘i̶̧̧̗̤̱̫̪̿̋͌͗̽̎e̺͖̞̗̘̥͔̒͛̓̓̽͝͠d̶̛͉̰͎̙͉͋́̈̃̏͠ d̴̩̯̬̘͇̓̌̚͘͝͝i̹͓͖͙͕̦̥͌͒͑̌̓̈́̊͢͝ḗ̷̛̛̗͓̥̲̾̑̇̀͆͢͝ͅd̴̡̨͚͚̱̲̔͊͛̇͑̌̃͠ d͛̄̉ͩͮ͐̓ͪ̊̈́͢҉̲͇̙̱ͅi̴̧̤̜̥͓͍̪͇̟͎ͭͩͩͥ̽̈eͤͭͭ͏̡̦̟͓̥͙͡d̵̗̳̠̩̺̪̮̑͂͊̓ͬ͆͗͛̏̐̋͂̎̇͆͟͝ ̴̶̛̭̰͕̺̲̍̿̋̌͆̾̐̏ͬͦ̂ͭ͋̅ͯ́̚͢~~

He blinks, abruptly aware that there’s a knife in his hand and blood all over his clothes. There’s a body at his feet, though it’s too badly mangled for him to recognize who it might have been. There’s a wave of horror, promptly boxed up and shoved into that dark little corner in the back of his mind.

~~has it always been so crowded?~~

And he gets to work disposing of ~~yet another~~ body.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After all that, Peter is reunited with Juno. It goes about as well as can be expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got A LOT of requests to continue this fic, so here it is.

~~This was a mistake.~~ This is fine.

 ~~He should never have come.~~ Just a minor setback. Nothing to be concerned about.

Of course, he intended to be on Venus right now, relieving a collector of a twenty-third century statue in order to sell it to another collector, but that arrangement is hardly time-sensitive. So it hardly matters that the spaceship he was on had a mechanical malfunction and needs to stop for repairs at the largest spaceport of the nearest planet.

The captain announces that the damage is severe; the ship will need to remain in dry dock for a few days at least. ~~Dammit all dammit all damn this whole planet straight to hell~~

And so he takes the opportunity ~~what choice does he have?~~ to leave the spaceport and wander the streets of ~~the place he swore he’d never see again~~ Hyperion City.

He’s visited once or twice ~~a mask, an interrupted kiss, a beam of starlight, a dark apartment that was empty until it wasn’t~~ but the place hasn’t made much of an impression on him.

He has lunch in a quaint little diner.   ~~The Triad’s restaurant is across the street.~~ He basks in the light of the pale moon overhead. ~~The Kanagawa mansion glowing in the sky.~~ Even the skyline is lovely here. ~~That’s the building where Juno used to keep his office.~~ He’s practically swept away by all the bustle and noise of the city. ~~Every reminder brings with it a new wave of grief. It’s dizzying, really.~~

~~It’s getting hard to keep his head up.~~

~~He thinks he might drown.~~

A waiter emerges from the restaurant across the street and approaches him, a plastic smile on his face.

“Agent Glass! How delightful to see you back on Mars. My employer would like to extend his most sincere welcome, and a complimentary dessert. We insist.”

* * *

The police scanner on Juno’s desk goes ballistic, suddenly alight with warnings for officers to steer clear of the Triad restaurant on 45th and Sun—apparently a fight’s broken out.

“Dammit, Batista,” he hisses, leaping from his desk and grabbing his laser and jacket without breaking stride. It was only a matter of time before the Widow Batista got tired of waiting and took matters into her own hands—but attacking a Triad stronghold is near suicide.

He races onto the scene, not even bothering to park his car a few discrete blocks away before he’s out the door and running. He needs to get her out of there before she gets herself killed.

But Widow Batista isn’t the one who needs saving.

He chokes on the smell of gore the second he steps through the door. The floor is pooled with blood. Bodies are strewn across the vast restaurant, following the path of a brawl. At its epicenter, standing above a pile of corpses and their discarded weapons, is a man Juno never thought he’d see again.

“Nureyev?” he whispers before he can stop himself, and the other man slowly turns to face him. A box cutter is clasped in his hand, still active and glowing a brilliant blue. “Nureyev?”

Nureyev dons a smile that might have been charming if it didn’t look so robotic. “Ah, Juno, you’re alive. That’s certainly surprising.” Only he doesn’t sound surprised. His tone is too casual, too calm, too familiar. Juno swears he heard Nureyev’s voice take on this same cadence when he was being charming to complete strangers.

That stings, but it’s not like he doesn’t have the right to be mad, not after what Juno pulled in the tomb. Juno gets that. He’s been working on… a lot of stuff, recently. And he’s better than he was then. He’s making sure to stay better.

“Nureyev, listen. I’m…” Dammit, he’s working on this, but it’s still hard to get the words out. “I’m sorry. For everything. I should have reached out to you before this. Let you know.”

Just saying it takes a lot out of him, so he would be a little peeved that Peter waves him off with a mild “think nothing of it”—except that he’s still swaying, and the box cutter is still blazing in his hand. Not aggressively, either, but like he forgot it even existed.

In the eerie glow of the blade, his face looks oddly bloodless. His eyes are cloudy and unfocused.

“Are you alright?” he asks slowly, inching toward the other man.

“Nothing that a bit of sleep won’t resolve.”

“Well, then you’re in luck,” Juno says. “Because my apartment just happens to have a bed.”

“With an invitation like that, how can I refuse?” There it is again. That same odd cadence to his voice. The words he says sound right, but generic. Canned phrases.

So what is this? A mechanical puppet?

He reaches for Nureyev’s hand with forced nonchalance, so as not to set off any defense protocols. Nureyev doesn’t respond. When Juno tries to take the box cutter, it’s released without a struggle. His hand is tacky with drying blood, but it’s warm, and there’s a pulse beating just underneath his skin.

He’s human. The realization makes him even more nauseous than the restaurant full of gore. Because if this really is Nureyev, then something is very, very wrong.

“Come on, let’s get you out of here before the reinforcements show up.”

* * *

The first moment of awareness is of something warm and wet on his face. A washcloth, he realizes a moment later.

He smells blood and disinfectant. His arm hurts; around the pain is the tightness of a bandage, and around that, the cold of water drying on bare skin. His shirt is off, hanging from a shower curtain and dripping a familiar shade of red into the bathtub below.

He licks his lips. They’re dry; he tastes blood and… orange juice?

When did he have orange juice?

A washcloth is slowly dipped into water and wrung out, and immediately his eyes follow the source of the sound.

He knows without remembering how he knows. Before he sees the scarred, callused hands holding the washcloth, or the broad shoulders he’s been trying not to think about for how long? And a familiar face interrupted by an unfamiliar eye patch.

_Juno, your eye!_

_Yeah, it’s beautiful in the moonlight, I know. Mind if we deal with business right now?_

“Juno?” It comes out as a breath. He doesn’t believe it. He can’t believe it. Juno is ~~dead~~ not dead ~~alive d̷e̖̗̲a̸d̫̤̳͉̠̪͜ d̷̝̰̱͔̘e̤͈̯̲͔͞a̛̘͇̮̹d̞̗̩̟̮~~ —

“Hey, hold on.” A strong arm wraps around his shoulders and steadies him. “It’s okay. I’ve got you, Nureyev.”

It doesn’t make sense. He feels like Juno. Smells like him. Says his name like only Juno ever has. But it can’t be him. It can’t. “I don’t… what…?”

“It’s okay. I’m pretty sure you’re coming out of shock right now. It looks like you got jumped by the Triad. I’d say you ought to see the other guy, but a sight like that’s gonna put you off hamburger for years.” Juno hesitates. “You’re in my apartment right now. In my bathroom. It’s March third. A Tuesday. Which means the public network is streaming a marathon of those soaps Rita likes so much. I don’t know if that would help you right now or not.”

Peter clings to those details. He’s here and now. Not in an ancient tomb. Not on the other side of an impenetrable door.

“You’re alive,” he says dumbly. “But you… you were dead…” Unless he wasn’t. And suddenly he’s back on the other side of that door, dragging himself off the floor, turning around and leaving—and there’s Juno on the other side, unconscious or too hurt to call for help, left to rot alone—

“Nureyev. Nureyev, I’m right here. We’re both right here. Come on, stay with me.” A callused thumb is pressing circles into the palm of his hand. “I’m alive, and so are you. We’re both going to be okay.”

He’s not sure how long he was out, but a threadbare towel has been thrown over his shoulders, and Juno looks worried.

“I thought you were dead,” he whispers weakly. It’s an explanation. An apology.

“I know. I’m sorry, Nureyev. I’m so goddamn sorry. I shouldn’t have done that to you.”

Done what? Juno didn’t—

He can feel himself going under again, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“We don’t need to talk about this right now,” Juno says, and Peter holds onto that voice like a lifeline. “Do you want to shower? Are you hungry?”

Peter looks down. The blood has been carefully washed off his skin, leaving only the stains in his clothes. In place of the blood is an array of cuts and bruises. His joints feel stiff, his whole body sore like he’s been exerting himself. And he’s so very tired.

“I could lay down,” he says finally. The words are barely out of his mouth before Juno is on his feet and helping him up. The bathroom door opens to an apartment that somehow manages to be messy despite the lack of personal effects.

Juno slips past to pull rumpled clothes out of a dresser. “I’ve got spare clothes if you want something to sleep in. I can’t promise they’ll fit well, but they’re clean.” He sets them down on the bed, pulls back the covers, and instantly looks uncomfortable without something to do with his hands. “If you need anything, just let me know. I’ll just be in the other room.”

Juno starts walking, and with every step he takes, panic swells in Peter’s throat until he thinks he’ll choke on it. He can’t just let Juno disappear behind another locked door. He can’t go through that. Not again.

“Juno, wait,” he says too quickly, but Juno stops all the same. Looks at him, patient and unassuming in a way he’s never been before. “Stay. I just need to know that you…”

“Okay.” And he turns around again and sits on the edge of the bed. “I’ll be right here, then.”

Peter slips under the covers. He’s drained in every way he can imagine right now, but he struggles to keep his eyes on Juno. To make sure Juno’s still alive, still safe, still on this side of the door.

But then Juno reaches out and takes his hand.

“It’s okay, Nureyev,” he says softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Peter’s still clinging to that hand when he finally gives in to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's been going on on Juno's end of all this

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @typehere452 requested another installment of the saga of Peter Nureyev and the Very Bad Horrible No Good Coping Mechanism.  
> "Juno’s pov that ongoing ficlet series. I wanna see more of his reaction to Peter’s dissociation and and what happened between the tomb and finding Peter again in that restaurant."

Juno wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he hit rock bottom. Maybe he thought the fall would kill him—but let’s face it, he had been moving in a steady downward spiral for years. By the time he let go completely, he didn’t have very far left to fall.

He could curl up and die here in this tomb and finish the work the bomb should have done, but it isn’t in his nature to give up, no matter how much he wants to.  So he scrapes himself off the floor, opens the airlock, and staggers into the glowing halls of the Martian tomb.

The Ruby Seven is long gone—Nureyev probably took it with him when he left—but Juno does find a room full of teleporters and an instruction manual written in plain Martian. It takes a bit of tinkering to figure out how to make them work, but he manages it eventually.

And that leaves him with a choice.

He could go anywhere right now. Anywhere on Mars, anyway. He could send himself into the heart of the Kanagawa mansion, where they’d make short work of an enemy of the family. He could sneak into the cargo hold of a spaceship and go off world. He could go to Valles Vicky’s and drink himself into oblivion.

In the end, he calculates out the proper coordinates and steps into the teleporter. When the red light fades and the whirlwind settles around him, he’s standing in his office, a few feet away from a bewildered looking secretary.

“Hey, Rita,” he says quietly. “I’m back.”

Rita doesn’t take no for an answer when she dragged Juno to the hospital, and she doesn’t take it personally when he gets surly and snaps at her. She just comes by every day, makes sure the blinds get drawn and the laundry gets done and that there’s food sitting in the microwave for when he gets hungry, and then she bustles out again to do detective work of her own.

But one day she leaves a phone number.

Her friend Frannie. The therapist.

And Juno wants to be insulted. He wants to throw a tantrum, shout to the stars that there’s nothing wrong with him and he doesn’t need any head shrink to tell him how to live his life and he’s just fine—

But that’s a bigger lie than even he can believe right now. He’s messed up. He’s messed up real bad, and there’s no more fixing this on his own. He doesn’t even know where to start. So if somebody else has any better ideas, he’d love to hear them.

He makes the call.

* * *

“What do you want from me?” 

It’s a deceptively simple question, but Frannie keeps coming back to it. She’s not going to start doling out unsolicited advice. She’s not going to tell him he’s crazy or overreacting and try to lock him up, the way his mother always said people like her would.

She’s direct and to the point: she’s a professional, and he’s hired her for her services—but he’s the one who’s got to tell her what he’s hiring her for. Like a Private Eye for the mind, only instead of investigating a cheating spouse or embezzled funds, her case is trying to figure out how to sort out the mess that is Juno Steel. The clues are inside his head, and she can’t do her job if he tries to hide them from her.

He decides very quickly that he likes this therapist.

Maybe Rita’s been keeping her up to date, but Frannie isn’t shocked by anything Juno tells her. She just follows each lead he gives her, thoroughly and methodically, gathering a pool of suspects and crossing off the ones who don’t fit. Among those still on the hook are an abusive mother, a lifetime of maladaptive coping mechanisms, and chronic depression. And since none of those can be thrown in the slammer, she gives him other ways to strip them of their power.

He goes to the shooting range to regain his aim. He starts taking notes of when he drinks so he can report those numbers back to her. He starts spending more time with Mick and Alessandra and Vicky. He learns to apologize for the shit he’s done wrong and work toward making it right. When the winds inside his head start whipping themselves into a storm, he learns to recognize it and take cover instead of letting it sweep him up in its chaos.

For the first time in his life, he starts to feel stable. Confident, even. Hell, now that he knows what he’s doing, he can handle anything.

And then he sees Peter Nureyev.

* * *

“Frannie?” He’s pacing across his living room, trying to keep his voice down but not sure if it even fucking matters right now. “Frannie, I need help right now. It’s Rex.”

“Is he there right now?” she asks. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he says too sharply, and they both know it’s a lie. He’s frantic and furious and goddamn terrified, but it’s all for Nureyev. “I _will be_ fine. But there’s something wrong with him. He’s not—he’s not looking at me when he looks at me. He keeps staring straight ahead. He’s acting—I don’t know, drunk, or drugged, or _something_ , but he doesn’t smell like booze and this isn’t like any drugs I’ve seen. He knows who I am but he doesn’t seem to know where he is or what he’s done and he keeps losing track of the conversation—”

Frannie coaches Juno through the phone, and he follows her instructions with a rigid obedience that he hasn’t shown since the police academy. 

_Treat the immediate injuries that you see. Give him something to eat or drink. Try some gentle tactile sensation. Touch him, if he’ll allow himself to be touched. Give him something to focus on. Speak gently to him. Say his name. Remind him where and when he is. And when you’ve done all that, call me back and let me know how it worked._

That’s the only one of her instructions he disobeys. But right now Nureyev is tucked into his bed and holding onto Juno’s hand like he’s afraid one of them will disappear. Juno isn’t willing to wake him with a phone call, and he can’t exactly leave the room without extracting his hand from Nureyev’s death grip. 

But Frannie will forgive him for sending a text instead.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter still has nightmares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pnureyev asked:  
> (I honestly love your writing so much) you can't compartmentalize in your sleep: how about Peter and night terrors even after learning Juno is still alive
> 
> Based on what my research was able to find on night terrors, I'm going with standard nightmares instead.

She’s everywhere. 

Tentacles– nothing but tentacles no matter which way he turns. They’re coming for him, wrapping around his limbs, his chest, his throat, trying to crush him or rip him to pieces or break him in half. 

If he turns, he might be able to outrun her. Escape down the endless corridors of the tomb, make it to the teleporters, and get offworld before the bomb goes off. It’s a long shot, but there’s still a chance he can make it out of this alive.

But he can’t.

Not without leaving Juno vulnerable to those crushing, tearing tentacles. So he stays. So he fights.

His muscles are cramping. His skin is burned from having to cut the tentacles off his arms and legs so he can keep moving. His breath is coming in ragged gasps through a half-crushed trachea. He’s slowing, losing momentum, losing strength. And the tentacles are pushing closer, coming faster than he can cut them off–

And suddenly the wall opens up behind him, and he stumbles into open air. He turns around, sees Juno standing on the other side of that airlock, sees him flash a grim smile. The door slams shut just as the tentacles wrap around him.

The door is opaque, but he knows exactly what’s happening on the other side. He sees Miasma tearing Juno apart. He hears his bones snap and cartilage rip from its joints as she crushes him under her bulk.. Feels the shock wave of nuclear fire before it reduces Juno to shadows and dust. He sees a corrosive gas leak from the egg and eat him away by inches. 

He sees Juno die a hundred thousand times, and he knows he has the power to make it stop if he could _just open the door!_

He throws himself at it. Claws at the wall until his fingers bleed. Pounds his fist at the steel until his bones are cracked and jutting through the skin. He screams and screams and screams and screams–

“–a dream. Peter, you’ve got to believe me, it’s just a dream. You’re here with me right now, and you’re safe. It’s just a dream.” 

Peter’s eyes snap open. Juno’s face is inches from his, the light of a bedside lamp leaving a pooling shadow where his right eye used to be, but his whole face softens with relief.

“Hey,” Juno says softly. “You awake?” 

“That depends.” The words come out cracked and raw. Peter’s breathing like he’s run a mile. “Are you alive?”

“As alive as ever. See?” Juno’s hands are already clamped tight around Peter’s wrists. Now his grip softens, and he guides Peter’s fingertips to his jugular. 

It takes a few moments for Peter’s hands to stop shaking enough for him to feel the pulse there, but it’s steady and strong. 

“Of course you are,” Peter sighs. “It was just a dream.” He glances down. Juno’s still holding his wrists. As if he suddenly became aware of that, too, he releases Peter’s hand and brushes the damp hair out of his eyes. “I take it I was thrashing again.”

“Don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t let you hurt yourself.” 

Isn’t that a suspiciously specific turn of phrase? Peter frowns. “Did I hurt you?” 

“I’m fine,” Juno insists, but he lets Peter sit up and roll him onto his back all the same.

Peter’s hands ghost over Juno’s skin, pausing to catalog every cut and bruise.

“Nope, that was from that security guard the other day,” Juno assures him. “And one was from diving out of the way of that car on Tuesday. You were there, remember?” 

“I remember.” And Peter presses a kiss to the half-healed scrapes on Juno’s forearm. It’s one more bit of evidence that the nightmare was just a nightmare, and Juno is still alive.


	5. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not all bad. Sometimes there's even sex. And sometimes there isn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vfdbeatrice asked:  
> Okay okay last extension of little mentioned things and then you get a break from me I PROMISE but you alluded to hilariously failed wall sex and that's a light fluffy thing amidst all the angst. Just a thought
> 
> (This chapter will be NSFW)

Juno’s back is to the wall. His hands are pinned over his head. It’s hard to breathe– not just because his ribs are crushed against Peter’s chest, but because he’s gasping every time Peter stops kissing him to leave a fresh bruise on his throat. 

He’s hard and aching, but he needs more. He needs to be closer, dammit. _Closer_. He makes a needy sound and hitches a leg over Peter’s thigh, pulling him in and grinding against him all at once, and the friction is incredible. 

Peter chuckles– that dark, sensuous laugh that sends chills down Juno’s spine and sends his eye rolling back in his head. Peter leaves one hand to pin Juno’s wrist over his head; the other drops to Juno’s ass. He gives him an affectionate squeeze, then slides lower to grip his thigh. And Juno, lust-dazed, wraps his other leg around Peter’s waist.

Or that was the plan, anyway. 

The moment his foot leaves the floor, he starts sliding down the wall. 

He flails, but breaking his arms and leg out of Peter’s grip only succeeds in throwing Peter backward and sending Juno to the floor with an undignified yelp.

There’s a moment of shocked silence as the two of them blink at each other. And then Juno starts cracking up.

At least Peter recovers nicely. He rushes forward again, dripping concern and mortification. “Are you alright?” 

“F-fine.” It takes Juno a minute to get the word out, he’s laughing so hard, but he accepts a hand up. 

“Are you sure?” Peter asks, still worried.

“My ass is a bit sore, but hey, we were going for that anyway, right?”

That actually gets a snicker out of Peter, too. “You’re intolerable.” 

“But you already knew that.” Juno grins, his arms already draped around Peter’s neck again. “What do you think? Is the mood officially dead, or do you want to try again? Maybe on the counter this time?” 

The kiss he gets is answer enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how weirdly common it is that fictional couples are able to pick each other up willy nilly? Part of the reason it’s so damn obvious is because there’s an uncanny amount of wall sex in film/television. It’s kind of like explosions that way– really dramatic looking, sometimes actually quite spectacular in reality, but usually more rare and far less impressive than advertised.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Juno tells Peter the truth about what happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vfdbeatrice asked:  
> eyyyyy so what about Juno actually explaining to Peter that what happened in the tomb wasn't a matter of abandonment so much as Juno kind of being an ass? (I get that he wasn't doing it to be an ass but I'm mad at him, a feeling which increases with every instalment of Peter and the No Good, Horrible, Very Bad Coping Mechanism)

Juno trusts Frannie. Of course he does. After all, her advice so far hasn’t steered him wrong yet.

She’s the one he started talking to when he decided to get his life together. She’s the one he called when he found Peter in the Triad restaurant, covered in blood and surrounded by bodies. She’s the one he’s been calling every time Peter does something he doesn’t understand. 

So when she gives him advice he didn’t ask for, he should listen to her. She’s earned that. Even if the idea of it makes him feel sick.

Because Peter is stable now, more or less. Sure, sometimes his eyes go distant and his voice gets too animated, but those episodes are getting further apart, and Juno knows how to handle them now. So it’s okay. They can keep going like this forever.

_“Sure, he could probably swim for a long time with a broken arm, too. But he shouldn’t have to. Now that he’s got some solid ground under his feet, he needs to take time to heal.”_

It would be a whole lot easier if Peter would talk to her directly, but he won’t even think about it. Right now he doesn’t trust himself not to say something about Mag and Brahma, and he doesn’t trust her with the truth. 

Besides, he’s got a track record of killing people when he goes distant. He’s never tried to hurt Juno, but if he did, they both know Juno would be able to handle himself. Frannie can’t.

At least Peter’s willing to let Juno be his go-between, and Frannie’s willing to give him instructions. Assuming, of course, that he’ll follow them. Assuming that he trusts her.

And he does. Really.

 _He’s_ the one he’s doubting right now. Because there are so many ways he can mess this up. So many way’s he’s already messed it up.

But according to Frannie, if that mess is ever going to be cleaned up, even a little, it’s got to start here.

It’s got to start with a conversation.

* * *

They keep the blinds drawn and the lamps dim. Right now, bright light feels far too much like it belongs in an interrogation room. The deep shadows of the room offer plenty of places to hide his face or turn away. 

Peter’s sitting on a couch; Juno’s chair is pulled so close that their knees are touching. He’s leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling in Peter’s lap. As they talk, Peter trails his fingertips up and down those hands, noting the scars and calluses, the warmth of them, the pulse under the skin.

Juno is here and with him and alive.

They start slow, with topics that are so benign they might even be pleasant: Peter waiting in a darkened apartment for Juno to return home, spiriting him away to a grand resort for a mad card game and an impossible heist. 

Then comes the capture.

Then he’s offered a deck of cards and a choice: either he can turn over a card and listen to Juno gasping in pain as he tries to read his thoughts, or he can disobey and face Miasma’s wrath. 

It doesn’t matter if he holds out for a little while so Juno can catch his breath. He always turns over another card. It’s almost always Juno who’s unconscious by the time they’re dragged back to their cell, blood smeared across half his face. It’s always–

“Don’t you dare,” Juno says suddenly, squeezing Peter’s hand and dragging him back to the present. His eye is alight with protective fury. “Don’t let Miasma off the hook for what she did to us. She fucking tortured us, Peter. She tortured _you_. She would have killed you if you didn’t go along with it, and you still tried to let me rest. She’s the one who’s fucked up here. Not you. Never you.” 

“I left you there,” Peter argues. 

“You sure about that?” 

And they go over the moment again and again, laying out the details: Juno unconscious and bleeding, Peter calling Miasma’s assistants in a panic, realizing the opportunity to flee– “I didn’t plan to leave you, I never intended to use you as a distraction, you have to believe me,”– 

Juno kisses his knuckles. “Peter, you can’t pick me up even when you’re feeling energetic– we tried wall sex, remember? Did you really think you’d be able to throw me over your shoulder and run for it when you were starved and exhausted?”

He weighs the two images against each other: in one, Juno is collapsed against him, dusty and dirty, bleeding so profusely that Peter swears there must be a hemorrhage, the only sounds he makes a cracked grunt of pain. In the other, he’s on the floor, his body glistening with sweat and his eye patch askew, snorting with laughter as he reaches for a hand up. 

“You tried anyway,” Juno tells him. “And you came back for me. You didn’t leave me.” 

“I thought about it,” Peter confesses. “When I escaped. It seemed so easy. I could just get to the nearest space port and just… disappear.” 

“You didn’t, though. You came back for me. Just like I knew you would.” 

That should be more reassuring than it is, because Peter _didn’t_ come back. Not the last time. Not in the end. 

In the end, he left Juno to rot alone. 

“Peter. Peter, stay with me.” Juno’s voice seems to be coming from far away. There are hands on Peter’s face and lips against his, and it occurs to him that he can end this conversation now. All he has to do is pull Juno closer, pull off those clothes, and there’ll be no need to talk about any of this anymore. It would be so easy. Juno certainly wouldn’t argue. 

The thought is so tempting that it’s almost painful when he pulls away. 

“I thought you were dead,” he whispers.

“I’m not.” Already Juno is guiding Peter’s hand to his throat to let him feel the pulse beating there. “I’m right here. I’m alive.” 

As good as it is to hear, it’s the answer to a question he didn’t ask. 

“You don’t understand,” he says, squeezing Juno’s hand frantically. “When I left. I thought you were dead. I wouldn’t have gone otherwise. I never would have left you in that tomb if I’d known, Juno.” 

Juno suddenly looks sick. 

“I tried calling for you,” Peter continues. “I thought if you were hurt, you could at least hear me. I thought–”

“No,” Juno says softly, and Peter falls silent. “I heard you. I wasn’t– I was hurt, but not enough that I couldn’t open the door. I just… didn’t.” 

But that doesn’t make sense. “Why?”

“I didn’t think it would hurt you this way.” Juno’s expression is steady and grim, but under Peter’s fingertips, his pulse is racing. “I thought you would be upset for a few days, maybe, and then you’d be over it and back to adventuring across the galaxy, and you’d never think of me again.”

It comes like a slap in the face– because that’s exactly what happened. In fact, Peter didn’t even give himself a few days. Juno Steel was buried in the back of his head before he stepped out of the tomb. Peter only had to break his mind into pieces to do it.

“ _Why_?” he asks again, his voice cracking.

Juno starts to reach for him, but stops abruptly short. His hand hangs in the air. Maybe it’s trembling, or maybe Peter’s shaking so hard everything else looks like it’s coming apart, too. 

“I can’t give you a reason that’s going to make it okay,” he says quietly. “It was a shitty thing to do. I’m sorry, Peter.” 

Peter’s breath is coming in gasps. His hands are still on Juno’s throat. He increases the pressure under his fingertips, just slightly. Just enough to pull Juno forward, and bring their foreheads together.

Because he needs to be here for this. He can’t just fall out of himself again. 

“Then don’t give me a reason that’ll make it okay,” he says, more fiercely than he thought he was capable of. “I need to know why.” 

“There isn’t just one, Peter–”

“Then hurry up and start talking.” 

Juno lets out a breath like he’s accepting a sentence. “Back in that tomb, with the bomb– I was ready to die. I was okay with just letting go and being… done with it. Surviving didn’t feel like I dodged a laser, it felt like being robbed. And I could hear you on the other side of that door, Peter– you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. You make me happier than I’ve ever been. Ever. And that scares me more than dying ever has.” He takes a shuddering breath, and Peter can feel the wind running through his trachea. “What I did was shitty. Cowardly. Cruel. I get that. I never should have done that to you, and I’d take it back in a heartbeat if I could. But I can’t. I’m just… I’m sorry.” 

Juno’s still looking him in the eyes. Guilt hangs over him like a shroud, but more than that, there’s resignation. He’s accepted whatever happens next. 

Peter’s hands are still curled around Juno’s throat; it would be so easy to add a little more pressure and cut off those shaking breaths altogether.

He wonders whether that was intentional. Or whether that would be better or worse than standing up and walking out of this apartment forever. 

He takes a deep, heaving breath and lets his hands fall to Juno’s shoulders.

“Don’t you ever do that again,” he says finally. 

“Never,” Juno whispers. “I swear.” His hand is still hovering in the air, shaking with the need to touch. So Peter takes it in his. 

He’ll need time to process all of this. He’s not sure how much. Right now he’s too drained to be upset with anyone anymore. 

But for the first time in… too long, he feels like he can breathe again. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets better. It still gets bad, but eventually even the bad is better.

Juno can handle this. He can handle this.

Just put one foot in front of the other. Keep his expression steady. Look relaxed. Look confident. 

He only has to fake it a little longer– thank god, Peter’s stifling a yawn.

“Come on,” he says, wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulder. “Let’s get you to bed.” 

Peter’s groggy enough to let himself be led into the bedroom and tucked in. Their lips meet briefly, and Juno follows up the kiss with a second to Peter’s forehead.

“Not tired?” Peter slurs. 

“Nah. I think I just need some air.” He lays down on top of the covers anyway, stroking Peter’s hair to lull him off to sleep. “I might step outside for a bit later, but I’ll have my phone on me. You can text if you need anything.” 

Peter nods reluctantly, but he’s too tired to argue.

It’s gotten to the point where Peter doesn’t have a panic attack every time there’s a shut door between the two of them, but there’s still a spike in anxiety. Juno wouldn’t think about leaving for the night at all, but his skin is crawling and his chest is imploding and he’s not sure how long he can keep quiet.

A little longer. Just keep it together a little longer.

Peter’s in enough of a doze that he might not notice Juno leaving, but Juno keeps his pace slow and relaxed all the same. He doesn’t want to make it look like he’s in a hurry to leave, even though his heart is racing like he’s having a heart attack.

It’s past midnight; the local boxing gym won’t be open. The bars will be, but he won’t risk being wasted if Peter needs him. It’s too late to call Frannie– he can do that in the morning, maybe.

The shaking starts before the apartment door is shut behind him. The tears hold back until he’s inside the elevator, but he still manages to stay on his feet. He has to drag himself up the last flight of steps to the roof and out the door.

The cold night air is like a punch in the gut, and he crumples without a fight. He’s shaking so hard he might fall apart entirely, a hand covering his mouth so his sobs don’t carry through anybody’s open windows. 

He’s been doing so well, dammit. He’s been keeping it together for Peter, because Peter needs him, but pretending to be okay doesn’t mean he’s got it completely under control. He’s felt this building for days now: bit by bit, the world had faded into shades of gray. Music seems pointless and atonal. Food has lost its flavor. Looking at Peter is physically painful– every glance is a reminder of what Juno did, how badly he fucked up, how stupid and selfish and awful he was, and how nothing he does will ever make it right again.

He’s fought it back for days, but it’s too much. It’s all too much. So he curls into a ball and lets it wash over him. He gasps for air while wishing he could just let go and _drown_ already. 

He’s not sure how long he’s shaking on that rooftop before something warm and soft descends on him. Not peace or anything metaphorical like that– a blanket, draped over his shoulders. 

“Oh, Juno…” He looks up in time to see Peter sink to his knees and wrap a slender arm around him.

He startles upright, instinctively scrubbing at his face like wiping away the tears will hide the rest of the evidence. It’s a frantic, futile gesture. “Peter– did you need something?”

Goddammit, did he not hear his phone go off? 

“I’m alright,” Peter says softly. Juno’s attempts to fix his composure are interrupted when a long-fingered hand cradles his cheek. “Are you?”

“I’m fine. Swell. Never better.” He wouldn’t be able to sell the lie even if his voice wasn’t phlegmy and raw. Peter definitely doesn’t buy it.

But maybe he doesn’t need to. He leans his forehead against Juno’s and holds him close. For several long minutes they sit in silence, the air between them slightly warmer than the rest of the rooftop.

“You’re free to continue,” Peter says gently. “But might I suggest doing so inside? You’re freezing.” 

This time it’s Juno who allows himself to be led– off the roof and into the elevator. There’s no point resisting now that he’s been found out. And he’s not entirely ready to admit it, but it feels nice to have Peter fretting over him. The soft, petting touches, the brush of lips over his skin, the gentle words murmured into his ear– they’re little points of color amid the gray. 

Peter only lets go of him long enough to make him a cup of tea, and then he presses the hot mug into his hands and joins him on the sofa. They’ll probably talk this all out– probably in the morning, once Juno’s collected himself enough to put it into words– but for the moment, he’s got a blanket and a mug of tea and Peter Nureyev to keep him afloat. 


End file.
